Letter of Intent
by GhostoftheMotif
Summary: England writes France a letter of intent; it might have been easier if he had some idea of what his intent actually was.


**Author's Note:** Sorry I missed last week's updates… I've been going through some rough patches, but on the bright side, I just had my birthday! I am now twenty.

I'll have the rest of The Liar's Hour up by this Wednesday, but for now, have a oneshot :3

0o0o0o0

As often as I may do so otherwise, I will not insult your intelligence by naming this for what it is. I know you will have recognized its purpose the moment that you saw it. If this letter is unwelcome and I have somehow misinterpreted the past few decades of our interactions, disregard the rest and be assured the progress we've made will not be undone.

I don't believe that either of us would try to deny how difficult this transition has been. Barely a century ago we still approached each other with reluctance and thinly-veiled contempt. That any of this would change would have been the improbable undermining of a lifetime of rivalry and war. Peace alters us, but I was of the firm conviction that it would not alter your place and mine. Again, unless I have misinterpreted, I was mistaken in that sentiment. We are not the men we once were. I'd become accustomed to the wider human world changing, caught up in a maelstrom around our kind while we stayed at its center, pure. I can no longer hold that to be true, and I can no longer delude myself into believing you incapable of change.

Sixty years ago, I nearly watched you die. It was not the only time this has happened in our histories, but it was the first time I was struck by the weight of what it would mean for you to disappear. The effect this had on me will not have been evident; it is not the sort of thing I am adept at conveying, a fault of which you will be well aware. Looking back I suppose I probably struck out at you with more bitterness because of it. It was a reaction born of pride, and I sincerely wish I didn't still have too much to apologize for it. Given the nature of this letter, however, I want you to know that finding you alive in Paris was an instance of such strong relief that I struggle to find even a handful of moments that compare.

It is not my intention to make light of wrongs we've done one another or to naively assume that they can be put aside, even if that was what we both wished. Memories run deep, and there are many that can never be overlooked or unwritten. My hope is that we can live enough years in good grace that one day the centuries when we sought to bleed one another dry will only be a small portion of our lives. Perhaps it is not the most eloquent or romantic of goals, but it is a place to start, and that is what I am asking for. I'm on the fourth paragraph of a letter of intent, and yet I'm unsure of what my intent is. I can't even name what we are now let alone what I wish for us to be. All I know is that while it might sound simple or trite, I want to be more than this.

Sixty years ago, I nearly watched you die, and I can't bear the thought of experiencing that again. It took me time to come to terms with that fact, but I have. It's not enough for me to go on as we have. I want to have conversations that are more than just snide jabs and competitions. Don't misunderstand; I enjoy those immensely and would never want to give them up to something tamer. I just want to know what it would be like to openly be more to you than someone to mock and be mocked by. I want to see the side of you that you've always guarded from me. I want you to see the side of me I've always guarded from you.

I know, considering how often we've manipulated one another, that you may not have faith in this letter's validity. I hope that showing a modicum of honesty and vulnerability in its contents will be enough to prove my sincerity. If it is not, then please tell me how I may convince you. I will do whatever I can.

While it may be an unconventional summation for a letter such as this, consider this a warning of my intent to try.

Forgive me for betraying what I've always understood as an unspoken agreement between us to never put this subject to voice. I felt that I could cheat it in pen.

Conceivably yours,

England

0o0o0o0o0

_Conceivably yours,_

_England_

France stared blankly at the page for a few moments before reading it again, and a third time, just to be _sure_. He sank back in his chair, suddenly blind to the files stacked on his desk and deaf to the constantly ringing phones in offices beyond his doors. His heart pounded, pumping a mélange of bewilderment and pensiveness through his body. England had written him a letter of intent. There was no verse or romantic gesture to be found in its lines, but it was a letter of intent nonetheless.

He took a steadying breath and tried to think, but he couldn't seem to get a grasp on the situation. This was… was…

What? Unthinkable, insane, foolish, self-sabotaging…?

France could apply any one of those words to the stationary in front of him, and yet he couldn't stop himself from reading it, couldn't stop his eyes from lingering on the salutation and letting a myriad of _if's_ scramble through his mind. England might have said to disregard the letter if he'd been mistaken, but even if he was, that was impossible. This had changed them. Simply penning the letter and sending it had changed them, and even if it hadn't, France… didn't think… that England _was_ mistaken, and maybe…

No. No, no, no. He put his head in his hands. This was _England_. Uncouth, unrefined, _England_, and France couldn't _possibly_ even consider that maybe…

"But I _am_ considering it, aren't I?" he murmured to himself, straightening. England said he couldn't bear the thought of him dying; France had felt the counterpart to that emotion, listening to news of the bombings of London. He'd known for quite a while that England meant something to him. Whether it was concern for the loss of a rival or concern for the loss of a friend had always been a specification that was lost on him, but France had known that he no longer wanted England to be hurt. But to be _romantically _involved would be…

(_Conceivably yours,_

_England_)

… no, _could be_ a much easier transition than France had originally thought.

There was a knock at his door.

"Come in," he instructed without looking up.

His boss leaned into the room slightly, not opening the door completely. "Good morning, France! Receive any interesting mail lately…?"

France froze and raised his eyes to Sarkozy's face slowly. "You… _knew?_"

"Knew what?" Sarkozy dodged.

Something clicked into place. "If England is going to go so far as to send a letter of intent, then he would have also followed the procedure of asking the recipient's parents for permission." France couldn't decide if he wanted to glare or feel amused. "Since I have none, that leaves you."

Sarkozy fidgeted. "I'm certain I have no idea what you're talking about, cheri." It was a lie and a bad one, but it was said with the smile of someone who was having fun. "England wrote you a letter of intent? Really? How odd. Oh, look, I have a meeting with the head of finances. I should be leaving."

France waved him out, suddenly feeling more good-natured. "Go, you conspirator."

The door clicked shut behind him, and France heard a delighted laugh not long afterwards.

"Well…" He started to lift his hand to the phone on his desk but went for his cell instead; he didn't want to start out by mixing business with what was personal. "I suppose I have a phone call to make."

There were three rings before someone picked up.

_"Hello?"_

England.

France took a breath and spoke carefully. "If you want to try… then by all means, Angelterre…" He swallowed and then smiled. "Try."


End file.
